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The city is on fire.
Charles can’t do anything but watch. Watch and wait. Wait for his fate to greet him: With loss, with pain. Perhaps with death.
His heart yearns to go down there and defend his people, to fight for them, but Charles knows what must be done to save his city. He’s the only one left who can save them.
The sound of fighting gets closer, and Charles knows they breached the palace. He knows the staff won’t fight, knows that the soldiers will lay down their weapons, and he knows they’ll tell the enemy where the bedchambers of the Prince are. He knows, because he told them to.
He watches the waves of their vast shores, the waters now littered with foreign ships, and yet still, it is the calm among the chaos. He wonders if he’ll die watching the sea.
It does not take long before the commotion arrives at his bedroom door. It bursts open, footsteps and unfamiliar voices following. Charles tightens his grip on the balustrade, eyes firmly fixed on the horizon. He doesn’t have much time left.
“Leave us.” A cold voice orders, his accent like that of the Northerners. It sends a shiver down Charles’ spine.
Footsteps retreat again, and the door closes behind them. There is no sound and if he didn’t know better, he’d think the leader of their group had left too. He does know better, knows that he’s being watched. He refuses to move.
It isn’t until the heavy blade of a sword comes to rest on his shoulder that he makes any indication that he knows he’s not alone. He lets go of the balustrade, forces his shoulders to relax, tries not to think about his brothers.
“Your servants,” The mans speaks, low, threatening, but also questioning. Curious. “They told me where to find you. Why?”
“That is meant for the King’s ears only.” Charles says, steadfast, and it rings true.
The blade shifts until the sharp edge presses against his neck. When he swallows, dry and heavy, he can feel it dig into his skin. “Well, tell me then, princelet.”
Charles inhales sharply. So it is the King of the Lower Lands, a lion of the North, knowing for his skill in battle, for his mercilessness. It is no more dangerous than before, the sword of a general or a king both cut deep, but the cost of failure is now far greater. Charles refuses to learn what that failure feels like. “I have an offer.”
“Do you.” The King says flatly. It’s not a question, it feels like a mockery.
When he turns around, the sword shifts from one shoulder to the other, ever present, ever a threat, but right now a tool, not a weapon. “I do, for you.” Charles confirms.
The King’s face looks like it’s carved out of stone, passive, with strong features and cold, blue eyes. A crown rests on his light hair, regal, but not as ornate as Charles’ own. It is simple in its design, a show of power, not to flaunt.
In turn, his eyes roam down his body, taking his appearance in, and Charles knows what he looks like. He had asked his handmaid for his finest, most flattering garb, those that hugged his figure and accentuated his curves, those that made him look most desirable.
“For me.” He echoes, just as bland as before.
Charles nods, his own expression neutral. “For the safety of my people, I am willing to offer anything.”
“That is cute,” He advances forward, pushing Charles backwards until his lower back hits the edge of the railing. The sword comes to rest under chin, forcing him to look up and meet his steely eyes. “What do you think you could offer that no one else has before?”
He keeps his gaze steady, forcing down his defiance, refusing to give in to the fire in his chest. He cannot afford to anger the King, cannot afford to mess this up. He can’t make any mistakes. “Myself.” He whispers, his heart in his throat.
The King does not say anything. He reaches up and replaces the blade against his chin with his hand. His touch is unyielding, but surprisingly warm. Charles does not resist, he relaxes instead. “You would offer yourself to another King?” He murmurs.
“I would do anything for my people,” He says, another truth. “Anything.”
“And what makes you think I need a whore?”
Heat creeps up his chest to his cheeks. “I,” Charles falters for a moment. He takes a breath, steadies himself. “I would be more than a normal whore.” He says firmly.
“A royal whore, then.” The King slides his thumb along Charles’ jaw, up to his cheekbone. “I don’t need you, princelet.”
Charles knows that, he knows that, but it has to be enough. “But you could want me,” He says softly. He lifts his hand and places it over the King’s heart. “I would be more than a whore, I would be yours,” He stresses. “All I want is the safety of my people. You can—,” He swallows. This is the hard part. “You can claim this land as your own, you can have my people as your people. They will follow you, when I’m yours.”
Perhaps he offers too much, but it is the only thing he can. His kingdom, even if it will no longer will be ‘his’, and himself, in exchange for the safety of his people. The price is high. Charles is willing to pay it.
The King presses the pad of his index finger against Charles’ lower lip. “What about your brother, princelet, what does he think of your… offer?”
“My brother passed, he was defending us against enemies from the South,” It was a heavy loss not just to Charles, to his family, but to their kingdom. It severely weakened them, they lost allies, and now, they might lose more. “I am the Crown Prince now.”
“Ah, yes, the saint send his soldiers to cross your lands.” The King sounds bored. “You have another brother, younger, what will become of him?”
Charles tenses. He’d hoped the King didn’t know about his younger brother. “He will be a normal citizen.” He says stiffly.
For the first time, he looks amused. “You would take his birth right away?”
He scowls slightly, desperately trying to keep calm. “To protect everyone, yes.”
“How… selfish.” The King says, but there’s a gleam in his eyes.
“If it saves his life, I do not care if I’m selfish.” He says, unwavering in his intent.
The King drops his hand away from Charles’ face to his neck. He expects to be choked, but the touch is light, almost soft, in its caress. “Then how can I expect your loyalty when it remains with them?” He asks coldly.
His heart skips a beat. “Because you could kill them either way!” He snaps back. Then, he freezes, a sudden panic coursing through his veins. Before Charles can open his mouth to apologise, the King squeezes his throat, faint but there, cutting him off.
“Princelet,” He says, slow and… and patient. Charles’ head spins. “I don’t want your body, and I don’t want your kingdom,” That is the worst thing he could possibly say. The only things Charles can offer, the only valuables he has left, and the King doesn’t want them. ”But I want your loyalty.”
And that… He pauses. That doesn’t make any sense.
Charles swallows the panic. “I do not understand,” He admits. “You do not want me, but you want my… loyalty?”
“Yes.” He says, like it’s simple. “And you will give it, because you’re selfish, because you know what will happen if you don’t.” There are many questions Charles has, many the King can probably answer, but refuses to.
Because you could kill them either way, Charles thinks, again, to himself, because it’s right. His kingdom, his people, they will die if Charles doesn’t try to save them. But, if the King accept, and Charles shows disloyalty, they will die anyway.
Loyalty is the only option. Maybe he does understand.
He nods, sliding his own hand to the King’s neck to mirror their stance. “I will be loyal,” Charles exhales slowly, makes up his mind, and trails his fingers over his lips. The King lets him. “I will be yours,” He says, softer this time, deliberate. “No matter what happens to me, if you spare Monaco, if you spare the people, I will be yours.”
Beneath his fingertips, he can feel the King’s breath halt. His expression stays unchanged, but his eyes flick down to Charles’ lips. He’s not as unaffected as he wants to pretend he is. Perhaps the King does want something other than loyalty after all.
“Well then, little prince,” The King breathes out, his touch solid, his gaze resolute. “Do you promise yourself to me, do you accept me as your King?”
It sounds like a proposal, and perhaps it is. But it feels different than that, it feels like a challenge, like a dare. Charles knows it’s neither, he recognises it now, that they’re both selfish, that the cold of the King is like his own fire, that what they want is more than just loyalty.
No, his proposal is not a challenge.
It’s a game, it’s a race, and Charles intends to win, to finish first.
He leans forward and slots their lips together. “I do.”